


And Now For Something Completely Different..... It's...

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BDSM referenced, Embarrassment, Humiliation, M/M, Tables Turned on BDSM trope, role play, sex fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Greg subverting a BDSM fantasy of Mycroft's, but replacing it with something just as satisfying. </p><p>As you can tell reading, I'm not morally appalled by BDSM fantasies. They're fantasies. People like roller coasters. People like thrillers. People like horror movies. People really like fantasies and role play about dangerous sex. This is not a bad thing.</p><p>However, there's really no getting around some of the negative elements of BDSM. By definition it's mostly about Dark Tropes. Which is all well and good if you get to play the good, innocent who is "made" to want orgasms after all. It's more complicated when pleasing your partner means regularly pretending to be a right bastard in bed. Especially if you are the sort to actually WANT to be a good-guy white-hat. Even if you can rock to the Evil Overlord vibe some of the time, well...playing the villain while your partner gets the victim role has to get old at least sometimes. </p><p>So, premise going in is that Greg's really ready for another fantasy, but he doesn't want to disappoint Mycroft. So he's come up with an alternative fantasy he hopes will satisfy similar needs....</p><p>Hope it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Now For Something Completely Different..... It's...

“No,” Greg said. “I really don’t want to play that one again, love.” His voice was gentle and kind, but adamant.

Mycroft felt something in him writhe and squirm—a blend of frustrated desire and shame and anger and disappointment. Most of all the mixed response to knowing—absolutely—that this was the end of that game. Greg wasn’t refusing “for now.” He was refusing forever.

“Please?” It might be hopeless, but Mycroft had not got where he was through a lack of reflexive negotiation.

Greg shook his head, eyes regretful but determined. “Love—I’m sorry, but whatever it’s doing for you, it leaves me having to channel a sonofabitching  sadistic rapist. I don’t like being that bastard, and I don’t like helping him play you, even if it does get you off.”

An argument Mycroft could hardly contradict. There were times he was uncomfortable with the nature of his own fantasies—and at least he got to be the passive victim discovering ecstasy through defeat. Greg might not be the most passive or gentle man in the universe—he was a copper and Sherlock’s friend, and he could enjoy a dust-up with the best of them. But he wasn’t mean, and while he could be clever and aggressive, he wasn’t cruel.

Head falling, Mycroft nodded. “Give me a few minutes to reset, then,” he said. He’d hungered for that fantasy. He wondered if there was any way to run the silent scene in his mind, as accompaniment to something more vanilla. He felt guilty thinking it, knowing he’d be far more involved with his daydream than with his actual lover. But he had needed that trigger tonight. Hungered for it. It still roared in him.

Greg frowned, and said, “Want to try something else.”

Mycroft looked up, unsure what he meant. “You have a new scene?”

“Nnnnoooooot exactly,” he said, brows knit in a frown as he thought. “Want to try—look, love. I want to try to scratch that itch for you another way, yeah? One that doesn’t squick me out and make me feel like I’m a sick fuck.”

“I’m afraid ‘sick fuck’ is rather the point,” Mycroft said, forlornly. “It’s built in.”

“I know. That’s why I think we’ve got to switch it out.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about this. For…a long time, yeah? I’ve got an idea, but I don’t want to explain it. Just want you to listen, and play your part. Because if I explain it you won’t feel it—not in your gut. You may get it in your head, but not in your gut.”

It made sense, Mycroft admitted. Some things worked better when experienced viscerally. Even an obsessive analyzer such as himself could concede that point. He cocked his head, and asked, uncertainly, “What do you want us to do, then?”

Amused delight flashed in his lover’s eyes for a moment, before be returned to sober determination. He caught Mycroft in a stern, authoritarian gaze. “You’re a curate, Mike,” he said. “Late eighteen hundreds. Good boy, you are. Virgin, even. Young—just out of seminary. Try hard. Good boy. Only fly in the ointment is—sometimes you want the wrong things, right? Maybe even give in and do the wrong things, alone up in your room, thinking about the wrong people while you do it. Can you imagine that fellow, Mike? Can you be him?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, thinking. He shivered. Yes, he could imagine him—the ideals, the beauty of the rites, the longing to be pure and good, all battling against another longing. A longing he was ashamed of. A longing that he was assured was depraved. The two fighting over rights to his will, to his body.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Later, if this worked, he thought, he’d have to arrange for costumes. He could see doing this in a Victorian cleric’s cassock…

“Who are you?” he asked. Lestrade’s role would change the story. Switch it around…

Lestrade chuckled. “Twice your age, boy. Done a bit of everything, me. Raised as a smith. Been to war. Came back with Indian booty. Came home and decided to do my bit for my town. Helped establish a constabulary. Set up a library. Bit of a free-thinker, me. Bit of a scandal, yeah? Never married. No better than I should be, though, according to the gossips, and the gossips don’t know the half of it. Been careful, though, and I’m healthy and sound and I stay fit and shock the local gentry by riding with the hunt but still shoeing my own horses. Turned my back on the church and flew the bird at sanctimony and the whispers say now I’m reading treason and damnation by radical Russians. Can you see me, Mike? Know who I am? Have you seen me in the pub? Out on the green playing a bit of rugby with the lads? Heard me walking home in a high and mighty state of drunkenness, singing love songs to My Lady Moon?”

Mycroft found his lips turning up at the corners, his eyes crinkling even though they were shut. “Yes,” he said, the smile seeping into even his voice. “I can see you, you great damned hell spark.”

“Does the curate want me?” Greg asked, quietly.

“Yes…” Mycroft knew it. The poor lad hungered for that bull of a man. He blushed at the sight of strong thighs in loose workingman’s trousers as the other man ran on the green, battling over the odd, ugly ball. He’d fought down a yen to join the team just to take part in the scrum and lie on that solid body at the bottom of a tackle. He’d been ashamed, and still he’d wanted the man. He’d felt his cock twitch under the skirts of his cassock, well contained in his trousers, and yet…

He’d thought of him at night, touching himself. He’d scowled at him the next day, walking down the street to the smithy leading his great hunter, sure the man was a witch or a tool of the devil himself to haunt him so.

“Yes,” he said to Greg, eyes still shut. “The curate wants you.”

There was a slow silence, then, between them. Greg touched Mycroft’s shoulders, kissed his hair, nibbled his ear. Then he said, “All right. This is how it goes. It’s night. There’s been a church Fete that day—the usual. Jumble sales and coconut shies and carny games. Me, I was there—I rang the bell and knocked down the coconuts and bought cakes at the baked goods stall and a pair of embroidered slippers at the worked goods stall. Drank lemonade and nodded to the gentry and flirted with the farmers’ daughters. Can you see me, Mike?”

“Yes.” Mycroft let himself be drawn close to Lestrade, leaned back on his strong chest, feeling his hands run over him—strong hands, though soft and well-kept. A detective’s hands, calloused only with the little, smooth pads on the tips of his left-hand fingers, from chording his guitar.  “I can see you. You’re a scamp and a scoundrel and a grand and wicked beauty of a man.”

“Aye, I am. And I flirted with you, too, didn’t I? Not that anyone would see it but us—just Greg teasin’ the curate, same as any man might do…”

“Mmmm. I blushed. I walked away.”

“Angry, you were. More than a bit rude. A bit not-good, like our Sherlock, yes?”

“Wicked is as wicked does. You were a scandal. A wicked scandal.”

“Stormed off in a pet, didn’t you? Hurried off in an awful state and didn’t come back till you’d made a complete fool of yourself at the coconut shy, and paid for three new roof-slates trying to bring just one coconut down.”

Mycroft nodded, chuckling under his breath, hands stroking Greg’s as Greg’s stroked him. “You are impossible. I was furious.”

“Truth is, you’re furious still,’ Greg said. “It’s night, and the moon’s high, and you’ve been up in your attic alone, you have. And you couldn’t sleep. Not at all.”

“No. All the bad ideas keep coming,” Mycroft chimed in, in sync now, building the fantasy with his lover. “All the wanting, and it’s all your fault. Godless tempter, you.”

“Aye. And you’ve come down because you can’t stand it any longer, but if anyone asked you thought you heard something in the community hall, or out in the gardens where some of the stalls still stand.”

“I go down in my nightshirt and robe,” Mycroft whispered. “Decent enough but for my shins, and I’m not going to show myself in public, after all.”

“You’re barefoot,” Greg whispered. “You don’t even bother with the community hall. It’s not what you want anyway. You go out in the gardens, walking on the grass to avoid the gravel paths. The grass is already wet with dew, and the perennial beds are full of flowers.”

“Summer,” Mycroft said. “The roses are in bloom, and the lilies. The last of the peonies, too.”

“And there you find me. Sitting on a bench under an oak, pipe out, having a smoke.”

“I want to join you, but my finances won’t stretch to tobacco on a curate’s wage.”

“I’m salt of the earth, me—been a peasant and a so’jer, for all I’ve made my fortune. Shared a pipe like a common man at the pub all my days. I hand you mine without thinking or asking.”

“I wipe the stem—manners insist. I take a draw, imagining I can taste you even so, mixed in with the sweet smoke of the pipe tobacco. I wipe the stem again and return it.”

“I nod and pat the bench. ‘Join me a bit, lad. It’s a fine night and a full moon and the church gardens are lovely in moonlight.’”

“I join you,” Mycroft husked, lost in the fantasy. “I sit at the far end. I feel like I should scold you for your wickedness—in general, or specific. But I can’t. All I can do is imagine your mouth on the pipe, my mouth on the pipe, the heat of your thigh that I can’t touch but can imagine, the curve of your shoulders. I tell you that Father Markham and his family pay for a gardener to keep the church and vicarage gardens nice.”

“Daresay they pay the gardener better than they pay you, lad.”

“My pay’s set by the bishop.”

“Auld skinflint. Trust a bishop to be short on Christian charity to his own people.”

“We’re intended to live Godly lives. Modest and humble.” Mycroft draws into himself, pulling just a little away from his lover—the better to feel the glory when the fantasy will bring them together again. “Poverty is no shame.”

“Aye? So the Bishop wears emperor’s purple—and the curate’s dressing gown is worn to rags and tags.” Greg ran a hand down Mycroft’s arm, then says, “I touch you—touch your robe, my fingers picking out every mend and darn, and the raw edge of the seam where you’ve tried to do your own mending.”

“I’m embarrassed. I pull away.” Mycroft paused. “I want you, though.”

Greg chuckled. “I know, lad. I know. Not that I’ll say when I’ve already demonstrated quite well. Flirted with you, shared the bench, touched you. It’s your innings, now—you’re at bat. Time for you to make a move. So I say nothing, just trace that ragged seam down the underside of your arm, all the way to your wrist. And wait.”

“I can’t,” Mycroft muttered. “It’s wrong. Filthy. A sin. And what would people think? Of the two of us out here? I pull away. ‘You’re a wealthy man. It ill becomes you to chide those less fortunate.’”

“I smile—you’re a snippy thing. I try to meet your eye. ‘I’m not chiding you, lad. It’s a mortal shame they keep you so short when they work you so hard.’ I slip my fingers into the palm of your hand, trace the tips over the soft, tender cup, where your lifeline crosses your palm.” He followed suit, staying back from Mycroft, but sliding the tips of his fingers into Mycroft’s palm.

Mycroft gripped back, and gasped. “I…”

“I’m a patient man,” the wicked scoundrel whispered. “I can wait a long time if the prize is worth it.”

“I can’t.” Mycroft’s in the part, now, no longer the power that dominates modern Britain, but a slim, young curate trapped between the bitter morality of his tradition and the tender fingers of the man who shares the bench with him. “I can’t…I mean I don’t…” He snatches his hand away. “I’m sorry. That’s not done in polite circles.”

“Aye, well—might be I’m not always so polite.” The man chuckles—a round, merry, but terribly common sound. A bit vulgar. A bit suggestive.

He’s beautiful in the moonlight, and the coarse, kind laughter only makes it worse. The curate sits frozen, unable to leave, ashamed to stay. What would the man even think if he knew how his words are taken? If he knew what the curate saw when he looked on him?

He’s beautiful. His shoulders are strong, and his face the very picture of manly good looks, His hair is kept short, like a former soldier’s would be, but his neat beard remains, sparkling with silver like his hair. He’s shadow and tinsel, and there’s nothing about him that doesn’t call to the curate.

The curate is hard beneath the skirts of his nightshirt and robe. He doesn’t dare look to see if it shows. He fears it is—he can feel the push of fabric on the tip of his cock, pressing down on the tent post peak. Surely the other man can see that?

If so, nothing is said.

“May I have another from your pipe?” the curate says, meekly, to pass the time, to keep the other man there.

Their fingers touch. This time the curate forgets to wipe the stem, and when he sucks at the smoke his lips feel on fire imagining the other man’s there before. He can still feel their warmth on the amber pipe stem. The man keeps a good tobacco—deep and full-bodied, a bit like himself, with a heady sweetness that might be apples and pears, or perhaps cherries. The curate can scarcely bring himself to hand the pipe back. When he does he can’t quite resist letting his fingers stroke the other man’s.

Then the other man caresses him back. He slips down the bench toward the curate, until their thighs are close, their breath mingles. He leans in and turns his head, one arm going around the small of the curate’s back.

“No!” The curate is frightened, now—and angry. “I can’t. It’s wrong.”

The other man chuckles—amused, a bit patronizing. “Wrong is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Weak theology,” the curate sniffs. He pulls to the very end of the bench, his hip pressing into the oak arm, trying to put some space between himself and the other man.

He’s angry. He’s afraid. He glowers at the other man. “You could be arrested, you know.”

“Aye—and after fifty years without once being nabbed by the coppers, you might guess I know when to play—and who to play with.” He’s laughing at the curate—not cruel, but with the mild irony of a sophisticate listening to the yipping of an ingénue trying to preach to his elders. “Shall you report me?”

The curate scowls. He dare not. He’d lose his position, and his reputation. He knows there are men of the cloth who share his depravity, but he’s never been able to imagine how they do so, other than through chastity and self-discipline.

With the other man so close he is hard put to imagine how he himself can practice either. Without thinking, without meaning to, he reaches out and slips his hand up the strong chest, over the shoulders, around the nape of the other man’s neck, feeling the tendrils of his hair tangling in his fingers. He pulls, without meaning to, the action fed by years of lonely fantasies. He pulls and leans in, an imagined kiss possessing his yearning mind.

The other man’s mouth meets his, and the curate pulls away, panicked. He jumps up in terror and tries to slap the other man. He fails—he’s never been a village lad fighting a bully on the green. He’s never been a smithy insisting on his pay from a traveler hoping to cheat the hick out of a few shillings. He’s never been a raw soldier, or a seasoned one, or a newly-minted toff who puts the snobs of the gentry in a snit. The curate is no fighter, and the other man dodges and blocks effortlessly. The curate’s temper rages out of control and he swings wildly.

The other man lets his blows fall on his chest, chuckling. He catches the curate’s wrist. “Now, lad—no need for fisticuffs. I don’t take the unwilling.”

Their eyes meet, and the curate can’t endure the truth he finds in the other man’s eyes. He turns and runs, bare feet flashing white in the dark green, dewy grass. He’s beyond thought or logic, heading toward the old church burial ground, and the rolling meadow beyond. His feet slip and he staggers, and then realizes the other man is following. He takes it for pursuit, and true fear rises up in him. He runs like the novice he is, and staggers, and falls, knocking his knees. He rises only to find the other man looming over, reaching for him, and he goes mad, flailing and whimpering.

Strong arms lock around him, pinning his arms. He’s held still, bound, unable to move.

“Shhh.” The man soothes him as he’d soothe a nervous horse in the smithy. “Shhhh.”

The curate struggles. He writhes. He tries to free his arms.

“I’ll not hurt you, lad. But I’ll not let you free till you’re in your own head again.”

The curate is sure he’s already in his own head, defending himself (failing to defend himself) from a rapist deviant.

He thrashes.

The man’s hold is sure and steady. It only hurts when the curate twists too hard, forcing bone against bone as the other man maintains his grip.

“Let me go,” the curate hisses. “Please, just don’t hurt me.”

The other man snorts at the conflict between those two statements. But, then, he’s not the one who’s scared and trapped. He sighs. “Lad, lad… settle. I’ve never taken the unwilling and I have no intention of doing so tonight. Just ease up, so I can let you go without worrying you’re going to go haring off again. You could have killed yourself falling here, among the grave stones. And if you’d passed through the gate into the pasture, you could have run from here to the ridge and the heather and been lost entirely.”

The curate hears the words less than the rumbling tone and the unwavering grip around his body. He leans, defeated, against the other man’s chest, unsure what he’s facing. Unsure what happens next.

His cock has its own agenda, stirring and rising, returned from a brief hibernation during the curate’s flight. It brushes against the other man’s trousers—so solid the curate knows the other man must feel it. He sobs, shamed and tired and helpless and held firm, unable to run again, unable to flounce away.

The other man has seen too much, now. The curate knows it. He’s seen too much, he’s felt that devil-driven cock push against the buttons of his flies. He knows what he knows.

The curate hates him for it. He imagines blunt weapons and murder in the parish.

The other man’s hands pat his shoulders. He leans his face against the curate’s bent head.

“None but the willing, lad.”

The curate whines—and wriggles against the other man. Let that damned cock speak for him, he thinks. Spare me the shame of words.

“No, lad—after this it’s words or nothing.” The other man makes no motion beyond the gentle pat-pat of his hands on the curate’s shoulders. “I am not having you of two minds about this.”

The curate sniffles, and buries his face, telling himself he’s trapped. He can’t get free.

The arms around him have softened. The hands slide and pat, but don’t grip any more.

“Words,” the other man says. “You’ve got enough of them, university boy. Give me honest words.”

“You’re making me beg,” the curate growls, clinging to the other man’s body, pressing himself against the other man’s groin. “It’s not fair. You’re making me beg.”

The other man just snorts, then waits.

“I want it,” the curate gasps.

“Want what, love?”

The curate scowls. He wants the touching and the end of need and the memory of strong thighs churning as the other man chases the rugby ball down the field. He wants the sweet smell of the pipe left smoldering on the garden bench. He wants things he’s heard of that shock him and frighten him and that have names used as swearwords, for which he knows no kinder terms.

“I want,” he says again, helpless, trapped by his desires, unable to run from the other. “I want…”

The other man sighs, and laughs, and shakes his head. “Oh, lad—so young,” he says. “Here. I’ll help.” He leans in and hovers just over the curate’s face. “Do you want kisses, lad?”

The curate leans back, trying to claim his kiss silently, only to be reprimanded.

“Words, lad.”

“Yes,” he says, blushing. “I want kisses.”

He gets kisses—kisses that are everything he ever dared imagine. More than he imagined—he didn’t understand kisses as seduction, or as a preview of coming actions. He had not imagined the thrusting tongue, or the grip at the nape of his neck, or the gentle nip of lips, or the scrape of teeth. He moans, and leans into the kisses he’s won. He shivers, terrified, and says, “Hands. I want hands.”

The other laughs, and sets his hands to work, making free with the curate’s body. He slips out of his jacket and lays it down on the wet velvet grass of the cemetary. He lowers the curate down, and lies beside him, then sets his hand free, exploring the curate’s body. He opens the sash of the worn dressing robe, and opens the panels wide. He unbuttons the placket of the nightshirt, and slides his hands in to the warm body shivering in fear and wonder. He touches…

“Oh!”

“Too much?”

“N..no. I just never...”

“Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

“Words?”

“Touch my nipples.”

“Shall I tongue them, too?”

The curate shakes in embarrassment and humiliation—he’s not supposed to want this. He’s not supposed to love this. He’s not supposed to betray himself by admitting he does—that he longs for it. And yet…

“God, yes. Please. Oh, please….”

The other man leans over him, nuzzles, seeks with a hot, slippery tongue. He finds the curate’s nipples, even as his hands slide down the curate’s flanks and grip the skirts of his nightshirt, drawing them up and up.

The curate feels too much—the weight of the other man leaning on him. The nip of his teeth and the stroke of his tongue and the suckling tug of his mouth and lips. The tickle of wet grass where he’s slipped off the other man’s jacket. The smell of tobacco smoke and a musk he knows too well from his nights in the little attic room alone, touching himself. The slither of his cotton hem rising up his shins and thighs as he arches his body to make space for the fabric to pass freely.

He is ashamed of that arch. Ashamed as he helps the other man despoil him.

“I am a filthy sodomite,” he mutters, testing his shame against the words. They spark a conflict of desire and self-loathing.

“Thou art fair, my love. There is no spot in thee.”

The curate shudders at the words—the sacred Song of Solomon. “Blasphemy,’ he gasps, even as he lets his legs fall open so that hands can find his hard, needy cock.

“Truth,” the other man says. Then he shows what fifty years of guilt-free adventures can teach a man to do with his hands.

“This?” he asks. “Do you want me to get you ready? Make you hard? Open you up?”

“Yes…”

“Do you have words?”

“Fuck me,” the curate whimpers. “Please? Fuck me…”

The other man is good at what he does. He knows how to bring his partner pleasure even with the clutch and gasp and whine of virgin’s pain.

“Easy, easy—relax. Push against my fingers instead of puckering tight. Push out—yes. Now, I’ll wait. Tell me when you want me to go on.”

The curate still fears the words. When the cramp of penetration passes, and the hungry longing for more begins, he tries to thrust against his lover’s hand.

“No one unwilling,” the other man says.

“Forever?” The curate imagines a lifetime of the other man’s lovers, all wearily saying over and over again, “All right, fine, yes, I want you to open me up. Now, I want you to push. Again. Yes, again…”

The other man laughs. “Not forever. Not every move. But this is your first time, love, and you’re as frightened as you are wanting it. And I won’t make a mistake and take you frightened and unwilling.”

The curate hears the deep determination in the other man’s voice—hears the goodness and the moral integrity. He sighs and melts, and whispers, “Show me how it’s done—with the fingers. Give me more. Teach me.”

The other moans, then—the first time the curate has a clue his lover wants him as much as he wants his lover. He lays his face on the curate’s chest, leans in, wraps his thigh around the curate’s own, and thrusts with his fingers, showing his lover the rhythm, teaching him the way of desire. The curate gasps and whines and pushes into the thrust, feeling his lover’s cock for the first time, hard against his thigh.

“Touch me,” the other man says, shameless and hungry. “Touch me…”

The curate lets his hands roam, tracing strong shoulders, a strong, neat neck, the curve of a jaw. He slides his fingers  over his lover’s lips, only to have them sucked in and suckled on—an action that sets his cock twitching with reflected need.

His cock wants something the fingers thrusting are not giving. The curate thrusts up, seeking friction against the other’s waistcoat, knowing no words for what he wants to do or feel.

“Here,” the other says. He pulls the curate’s nightshirt hem high, so the cold night air hits his cock and balls. He gropes up until he finds the curate’s hand, the fingers damp from the other’s mouth. He draws it down, and wraps the curate’s fingers around his own cock. “You know what to do?”

The curate knows what to do—and flushes as he does it. For the first time another human knows—witnesses—the curate’s need and want, and knows the skill that depravity has driven him to master. He’s a master of self-abuse, and the other man knows it now. He can’t pretend he doesn’t want it any more…

The other man has opened him wide, eased him, taught him how to turn away from the pain and into pleasure, instead. His body screams for more—and for completion. He writhes, tries to silently beg.

“Words…”

“Fuck me. Please—please fuck me?”

“God…yes….”

The other kneels, taking his weight from the curate, who automatically starts to roll over to offer his bum. The other stops him with a strong, square hand in the middle of his chest. “There’s all sorts of ways to do this,” he says. “From the front as well as behind.”

The curate blinks, stunned. “Like real…like married people?”

The other frowns. “Like lovers—face to face, eye to eye, sigh to sigh. Would you like that?”

The curate has never imagined anything but being taken like a farm animal, from behind, pounded by a predator in some low whore-house or alley, or raped by a criminal along some back road, or shamed and used by one of the perverts at school or uni. He’s imagined having his face fucked. He’s imagined being buggered like a bitch. He’s never imagined it taking the shape and form of Christian love. He’s not sure if he’s shocked or wonderous at the idea. He does know…

“Please. Like that. Teach me like that.”

The other man nods and helps him, spreading him tenderly, rolling his jacket to sit beneath the curate’s hips, gathering chill, wet dew to moisten and lubricate him. He kneels between the curate’s knees. He lines himself up, pushes gently. Waits.

“Now?” he asks.

The curate has learned in just the last hour. “Try,” he says, laughter in his voice. He reaches up and holds his lover tight, and gasps as the first thrust comes. “Stop. Wait.”

The other chuckles. “Bossy thing, you.”

He doesn’t mean it, but the curate blushes anyway.

“All right. Again…”

It takes a few rounds, but then they’re settled.

The curate meets the other’s surging current, the tide of back and forth. He grips his own cock, jerking and tugging… He feels his lover suckle his tiny nipples, and nip along the line of his neck.

“Do you like it?” the other man gasps between nips.

The curate starts to moan, then smiles. Words—his lover needs words. Embarrassing though they are, helpless and desperate and trapped by need as he feels, he searches for words. “So good,” he says, gasping. “So sweet…”

His lover croons in pleased contentment, and thrust on.

“You’re beautiful,” the curate says, his free hand tracing his lover’s spine. “Beautiful. I have wanted you so…”

He can feel the effect of the words. His own blushing, helpless surrender to the meaning of those words. His own nakedness before this man who has captured him. But also the other’s longing joy, to be wanted, to be loved.

“You’re so good to me, love,” he says. “You make me feel so good…”

The words master them, bring them both to helpless surrender. They fall, broken and wailing, together, owned by each other….

“Bloody hell.” Greg fell between Mycroft’s thighs, weight heavy on his torso, panting and sweaty and spent. “Holy fucking…”

Mycroft laughed, and hugged his lover’s hips with his thighs. “Blasphemer,” he chuckled, and then hooked his fingers under Greg’s arms and tugged upward. “Come up, join me up here, love.”

Lestrade crept up the mattress and lay beside his partner. He sighed happily as Mycroft flipped the light sheet over them both. He hugged him close, pillowing his cheek on Mycroft’s upper arm. “Good?”

Mycroft hummed agreement.

More seriously, Greg asked, “Did it scratch the itch even a bit? I mean, it’s not me capturing you and using you and calling you a whore, but…”

Mycroft pressed close and stroked Greg’s hair, humming as he considered it. “Different,” he said, eventually. “But, yes—a bit. More than a bit.” He thought some more. “I don’t think I knew how much of the itch was scratched by what I can only call the confessional mode. Or by being made to claim each and every act my own desire. And I don’t think it ever occurred to me that I could be the one scolding me and you could be the one encouraging me.” He thought a bit more, then said, “And yes—the fear and the helpless sense of being captured and trapped, and of dealing with a will stronger than mine—you made the curate surrender to his own need, and admit it. It wasn’t the same as crawling and begging, but you’re right—it scratches a similar itch. Very similar.”

Greg sighed and relaxed beside him, and Mycroft realized for the first time that his lover had been as afraid as he’d been determined.

“Good,” Greg whispered, relief in every tone. “Then—can we do this, instead of that? At least some of the time?”

Mycroft smiled, relieved in his own right. His lover wasn’t demanding he give his favorite fantasy away entirely, then. “Yes,” he said, feeling equally generous. “Of course.”

And in the days after he thought about Greg, and marveled at the kindness of a man who played a monster for his lover’s pleasure—and who found another game more sweet as a gift of love.


End file.
